you've finished peeling the sweet potatoes, 
and your hands are not made ochre, but  
i think of them as such, like everything 
you touch turns melted crayola stamp 
sticky in a hot car, the ruddy thigh 
stuck by its own blue sweat, pressed with grass 
and itching to drip, mint chocolate chip 
curling down your fingers that are not 
so much clutching the peeler as they are...  
allowing the soft skin to be zested...  
off of orange leather...  
for you see that your hands 
held no sign of morning-glory excess— 
only the red trail dripping from your thumb  
i had failed to see: you’ve nicked yourself, my love. 

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